


(Consign me not) To Darkness

by cigarettesandalcohol



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Childhood Memories, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FIFA World Cup, FIFA World Cup 2018, Football, Football | Soccer, I'm sorry Luka, M/M, Sad, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettesandalcohol/pseuds/cigarettesandalcohol
Summary: "We won the second place.""We lost the first."





	(Consign me not) To Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> My heart is broken for my Balkan boys. The look on Luka's face when he received the Golden Ball....the skies over Moscow cried for him.
> 
> I took the inspiration from the match (naturally) and the fact that Rakitić posted a photo of himself and Modrić on Instagram with an admiring message to Luka (who so far didn't post nor liked anything about the final match - so I suppose that he just tries to not see all the messages and photos bc it would make him feel sad :() Thankfully, Rakitić is a ball of sunshine :)
> 
> The title is from the song "To Darkness" by Mumford & Sons.
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcome! I love you all :3

It's _him_ who let the team down.

It's _him_ who disappointed everyone.

It's him who should have been faster and more valuable, who shouldn't have made such long passes, who should have done better. That's what everyone expected him to do.

He could have done so much more. Who cares if he had doubts, who cares if his feet were slippery on the moist grass, who cares if he fell down a few times. They were all in the same position.

And he's the captain. He should be able to do twice as much as anyone else on the team.

Yet with every other passing minute, the score stays the same. The less time there is left of the game, the harder Modrić finds it to breathe. The tightening feeling in his chest is familiar, though long forgotten; he used to feel like this before his first matches in different clubs when he was younger.

_The anticipation. The fear of failing. The fear of not being good enough._

It's still harder to run and breathe at the same time, almost as if something was blocking his throat. And when the referee announces the last five minutes of the match, he feels like he might throw up anytime soon.

A desperate look up to the sky can't save him nor the score that shines brightly over their heads.

_4-2._

He blinks fast enough to fight back the tears.

It's not like he's going to cry, at least not for the cameras.

 

 

He shakes too many hands to remember and the rest is a blur. Somebody tells him to go to the left, then someone else says "To the right!" and in the background, he can hear the fans cheering (for whom? he asks himself). It's raining even harder now and he thinks it's pathetic to remember how many times he got soaking wet in his childhood when he just wanted to stay outside to kick the ball around - but he can't quite get rid of those memories.

It also rained when he arrived with his parents to that hotel in Zadar - and some people were screaming at him as well, giving him instructions and tasks to do, even his own parents were nervous that day. His mom was shaking as she led him by his little hand through the cordon of policemen (well, more likely just armed militiamen) while dragging and enormously big suitcase at the same time. One day he was told to choose his favorite clothes and toys, his mom planted a little kiss on his forehead and told him he really needs to choose only _the important things_. His dad squatted down next to him and asked him to be a good boy and listen to his mother, now more than ever.

The next day they left with two suitcases and two bags, and he was forced to wear four t-shirts, a sweater, and a jacket, while his parents did the same with their own clothes, and so they walked away from their house as soon as it dawned. He was in charge of carrying a smaller bag with the food and he hated it, he hated this nonsensical trip because they walked so far, far from their village, much further than Luka has ever walked in his life. Then they rode an overcrowded bus and he cried while looking from the window because his feet hurt and his parents didn't want to tell him where they were going.

In the end, they arrived in Zadar, and it wasn't all that bad. The hotel was small and packed people, they even had to share their already small room with two other families, it seemed like the whole region decided to go to Zadar for holidays; Luka asked his parents why hadn't they chose a nicer place to stay and this question made his mother cry and hug him tightly.

Now it's raining again and he holds his _Golden Ball_ award and wonders if this is his life at all.

 

 

Rakitić saw Luka talking to the coach when they arrived back at the hotel, explaining something while staring at the ground. Dalić put his hand on Modirć's shoulder and seemed to comfort him but Luka just shook his head, eyes still fixed on the tips of his shoes. The coach hugged him and patted his back, still continuing a litany of reassuring words, which didn't seem to work since Luka didn't even hug Dalić back and simply pulled away.

 _That's okay_ , Ivan thought. _Now he'll just need to be alone for some time, he'll get changed and rest a bit and then they will all meet at the dinner downstairs to finally celebrate the silver medals._

But Modrić didn't show up. 

Rakitić found himself looking at the doors leading to the room constantly, waiting for Luka to finally appear but it didn't happen. They all, of course, noticed their captain is missing, their eyes wandered across the room with the same confused question, until finally, someone dared to ask "Where's Luka?"

"Hewent to his room," the coach reacted immediately. "Don't worry - he's just tired and wanted to have some time alone. I talked to him and he's alright, he just doesn't feel like going anywhere now."

A silence fell on the whole dining room.

"Well - if the captain can't go to the party, the party can go to him!" Vida said and a thankful relieving laugh roared around the table.

Even Dalić smiled. "No, no - I think it's better to just give him some time. He'll eventually come here, I'm sure about that."

Rakitić didn't feel that way.

 

 

When the tense atmosphere was eased equally with jokes and beer (and with Dalić's unwavering effort to act as a proud father who's going to talk about the success of his boys with everyone he meets), Rakitić spotted a chance to sneak out of the dining room (which conveniently changed into a party room) with a plate full of everything he was able to grab from the buffet tables on his quiet way out.

Nobody answered his knocking on the door of Modrić's room, and all the darkest thoughts ran through Ivan's mind.

_What if Luka just left and now he's strolling through the streets of Moscow? What if he had done something terrible - what if -_

He took the handle; the door wasn't locked.

"Luka? It's me."

He didn't even need to shout it because he saw Luka immediately, although it was dark in the room, so he just closed the door, turned the lights on and put the plate he brought down on an end table. "Why won't you go downstairs? Everyone's waiting for you."

Modrić was lying on his stomach, sprawled across the double bed in the same clothes he arrived at the hotel as if he just got back from the game. His hair looked still wet and so did the pillow. The _Golden Ball Award_ was on the other pillow, probably thrown there without interest - as Rakitić could tell from the way it was just lying there behind Luka's back.

" _Luka_ ," he sighed. The pitiful sight of his captain made his heart sink. "You don't need to just lay here. I brought you some food from the buffet. You should eat something and come down with me. We can't celebrate without you."

Luka's eyes were wide open as he stared somewhere between Ivan and the wall. "What's there to celebrate?" he asked slowly as if talking caused him unbearable pain.

Rakitić sat down on the side of Luka's bad and reached for the captain's hand. It was cold and limp, almost lifeless, much like Modrić'c eyes. "The silver medals of course."

"Why?"

"We won the second place."

"We lost the first."

Luka spoke in such a quiet and slow way that every word seemed to echo ten times in Rakitić's ears.

"How can you say that? It's the best we've ever been."

"It could have been better."

Ivan touched his forehead and was terrified to find it was burning, in the contrast to Luka's cold hands. "You should get a shower and change your clothes - this can't be healthy."

"I don't want to."

"You'll catch a cold if you don't warm yourself up - _Jesus_ , close the window at least! It got so cold from the rain - " Rakitić jumped up and practically run to close the window he'd mentioned. Just as he shut it, he heard a weak voice coming from the bed.

"Can you die from a cold?"

At first, Rakitić didn't understand _what_ it meant. Then he threw himself back to the bed with feelings of desperate anger and pain. "How can you say that, Luka?! How can you even think about that! Look at me - look at me and swear you'll never say anything like this again."

Luka's uninterested gaze cut even deeper into his heart. "Luka, _please_ , don't do this to me. That's not something to joke about."

"Who says that I was joking?"

"Why - _why are you saying this_? You won your award, you lead the team to the finale, you fought and you inspired us all - "

"Was it enough?"

"Enough for what? For a stupid golden statue that we'd probably lose in four years?"

"Enough to not let people down."

"Whom? Whom exactly?"

"Everyone!" Luka spat out. Finally, there was some passion in his words.

"There's no everyone in here - why would you think so? All the fans love you, haven't you seen the support? Look at this - " He flips out his phone and searches something frantically there - "Look at the messages, look at the love you get - can't you see it? Who's disappointed in you? They love you-you're a national hero." He strokes the long wet hair and forces Luka to look his direction. "And I love you too. You're _my_ hero."

"I didn't think it would feel like this," Modrić admits shakily. The hand on his head stops and Rakitić lowers himself just over Luka, his Lukita - to kiss his cheek. A soft sob escaped Luka's lips as he finally surrendered to all the emotions and the first tears ran down his face, just to soak the pillow a little more. "I didn't think - " He can't go on.

Rakitić understands and he doesn't need to hear the rest - he's trying to wipe some of the tears away and then he kisses Luka's cheeks and cheekbones and temples, his lips are all over his face and the kisses are all soft and taste like salt.

"I know - I know, it's okay - let it out."

" - and I never thought it would be this hard - "

"Shhh, I know - "

"Why does it hurt so bad?"

"You did everything you could. I'm proud of you. Everyone's proud of you. You did for our little homeland more than anyone. _Tell the world that a Croat loves his people_. You made them all proud to be Croatian. This World Cup - everyone wished to be Croatian, to feel the pride and joy - to know that _you_ represent them."

A shy smile flashed behind the tears but it was gone as soon as it appeared. "It was - _so close_ \- just out of reach."

"There's always next time."

"What if there isn't? What if this was the last chance - the one and only chance given to us?"

"You can't be that pessimistic."

" _Stories like ours have happy endings, Ivan_."

"I know," Rakitić sighed. "Sometimes it's just...not supposed to be."

Luka's eyes were scanning his face as if to find some kind of explanation there.

"Are you sure you don't want to eat anything?" Rakitić quickly changed the subject.

"No; but thank you."

Rakitić nodded with a smile that was permanently present on his face and started to take his shoes off.

Modrić stared at him, probably too worn out to even ask questions, but his eyes betrayed anticipation of what comes next; he didn't have to wait too long - Ivan turned to him and with a cute little laugh, that would normally make Luka's heart melt, he joined his captain in the bed. He positioned himself right behind Luka and carefully took the golden award, which laid there unwanted and almost forgotten, and put it on the nightstand. "We don't have to go downstairs if you don't want to," he whispered as he lied down, and he hugged Luka from behind and pulled him closer, until their bodies were perfectly aligned together, with both of them lying on their sides and Ivan with his stomach pressed against Luka's back. "But I'm not gonna leave you here alone."

Being the big spoon filled Ivan with inner peace as well as the feeling of Luka - his _little_ , _frustrated_ and _tired_ Luka with his freezing hands and burning forehead - breathing right next to him brought the long-awaited feeling of victory.

"Thank you," Luka mumbled as Ivan ran his hand through Modrić's hair. "But you should go back to the guys, they'll see you're missing and - and I won't be much fun - _I'm so tired_."

"Don't worry - just close your eyes." His hand ran down Modric's neck and then stopped at his shirt. There was no need to go further, not now, not in this situation. "Tell me if you want anything, okay? And if you just want to sleep, then sleep."

"What if someone opened the door right now and saw us? What would they do?"

"Then they would close it again quietly."

"Why do you always see everything the easy way?"

"Because it is easy, Luka." He kissed the back of Modrić's neck. "Look at what you've got. A silver medal. The Golden Ball award. Isn't this enough?"

"It's not just about the trophies - "

"Shhh. I know. You said you were tired, didn't you? Just keep quiet and have your eyes closed, alright? And breathe. Isn't it an amazing feeling? Remember the boy who had to pack some of his toys because his parents told him to - and he was sad he couldn't take everything he had? What if someone told him that one day, he's going to be the best player of the World Championship in football? Wouldn't he give up all his toys and follow this dream? Look at where you are, Luka. Look at where you started. Isn't this a happy ending of your own?"

**Author's Note:**

> "...tell the world, that a Croat loves his people" is a line from the Croatian anthem.  
> "Look at where you are - Look at where you started" is basically taken from the musical Hamilton.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
